


Skin Deep

by albapuella (Wertiyurae)



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Body Horror, Short, Squigglydigg, Toon Henry AU, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wertiyurae/pseuds/albapuella
Summary: According to Sherlock Holmes, you can tell a lot about a man from looking at his hands.





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’ve been reading a lot of squigglydigglydoo‘s Toon Henry AU, and I’d read the response to this question (https://squigglydigglydoo.tumblr.com/post/162171847782/this-really-isnt-intended-on-being-weird-but), and–to cut to the chase–this idea wouldn’t leave me alone. 
> 
> I hope it meets with your approbation. I apologize if someone else has already done this.

Henry’s life was full of terrifying moments—up until entering this hell-scape of a rotting studio, many of those moments were tied to that period of his life he did his best to think of only as ‘The War’. The catalogue of terrifying moments was growing by leaps and bounds now that he was here at Joey Drew’s Studio thanks, in no small part, to Bendy’s attempts to ‘make him pay’ for ‘abandoning’ Joey and the toons here. After witnessing Sammy’s death via mallet (a scene that would no doubt replay in his nightmares for years to come, assuming he lived that long), Henry was in no hurry to put his own body to the test. 

If he had to die here, he didn’t want it to be because Bendy didn’t understand that a safe to the head or a stick of dynamite or other toonish gags would be fatal, and not in the cartoony way where Henry got a harp to play to go along with his halo and wings.

The latest terrifying moment, however, had nothing to do with Bendy and the fear of becoming an inky stain on the floor. 

He’d glanced down at his gloved hands as he’d been walking, the errant thought that at least he’d retained all of his fingers during his transformation into a toon crossing his mind, when he found himself wondering what his hands actually looked like beneath the gloves. 

As an animator, he’d always been proud of his hands. When he’d stopped animating, when he’d stopped drawing after ‘The War’ because he’d used his love of art to keep himself sane and found he couldn’t pick up a pen later without thinking of what he’d seen there, his hands had served him well for all the other pursuits he’d put them to.

According to Sherlock Holmes, you could tell a lot about a man by looking at his hands. Before he’d come here, his hands had been somewhat gnarled with age, but still flexible and strong. Calloused fingers with trimmed nails which he did his darnedest to keep clean.

What did they look like now?

Henry’s eyes swept the abandoned hallway. No immediate signs of danger. From the sound of things, he was alone for the time being. Satisfied that his indulgence was safe enough, he leaned the axe against the wall and pulled off the glove on his right hand.

Or, rather, he tried to. It was as though the glove were stuck to his skin. The minutes that followed were full of increasingly desperate and increasingly painful but futile attempts to peel the gloves away from his hands. After a final, savage tug, he gasped, and not just because the action had hurt. 

The realization washed over him like a bucket of icy water. The gloves weren’t _stuck_ to his skin, as he’d originally thought. No. He held his gloved hands up in front of his face, digesting the fact that his hands weren’t _inside_ of the gloves: they _were_ the gloves. 

Henry felt like he might start laughing. He felt like he might start screaming. He fought back the urge to do either, certain that, if he started, he might not ever stop. 

After what seemed like a very long time, he lowered his hands. All right. All right. _All_ _right_. He _was_ a toon, after all. He shouldn’t be surprised: unless a toon was going to throw down the gauntlet or something of that nature for a bit or a gag, there was no expectation that a toon would _ever_ be drawn without gloves on. It was just part of the design. No doubt the rest of his clothing was the same. He wasn’t going to _test_ that just now, but he had no reason to doubt it. 

He wouldn’t want to be off model, would he?

Henry shook his head sharply. If he could handle being a toon, he could handle the _rest_ of what that entailed. Later, if he lived long enough, he could have an existential crisis. For now, the important thing was to keep on _existing_. And his best bet of doing _that_ was to keep on moving forward. Thus decided, he picked up his axe and did so.


End file.
